Irrational And Illogical
by MyNameIsM
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Molly Hooper was not having a good month: she had committed a crime and had a bored consulting detective living in her flat. But she never expected this to happen. Sherlock Holmes acting as a father figure? Dear God. Sherlock/Molly
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I don't even know where this came from. I guess it's a crack fic of sorts. It just came to me. This will probably start out quite light-hearted but get a bit darker. But, you know, we'll see how it goes. _

Irrational And Illogical 

Chapter One

One thing was certain: this certainly was not Molly Hooper's month.

Well, it hadn't exactly been her year, or her decade, or her lifetime if you're going to be honest about it, but this month _in particular _had been awful. Diabolical. Horrendous. The single worst month in her whole life, that was for sure. Why, you may ask?

Well, first things first, she had assisted a good friend of hers in faking his suicide;and in doing so she had not only broken the law, but put her job on the line by swapping the bodies in the morgue and faking his autopsy.

She had also spent the last few weeks rushing either from home to work, or work to Baker Street, or Baker Street to home trying to keep everyone happy – John had been inconsolable for the first few days, and she'd been scared to leave him alone for too long, even though he had Mrs Hudson; and then she had to come home to Sherlock, who, while we're on the matter, was a very hard man to live with.

Her flat was not the most spacious apartment at the best of times, but that man seemed to have sprawled all over the place, consuming it with his Sherlock-ness. She wasn't even sure she _had_ a kitchen any more, not that she'd had the stomach for food of late. Sherlock treated it like a make-shift lab, even though it was pretty much the size of a cupboard. He boiled weird concoctions in the kettle and used the gas from the oven to fuel his Bunsen burners. She'd asked him time and again to tidy up, but he would not listen, he just pouted and waved her away like a petulant child.

And he really had been acting like an infant; moping and moaning and refusing to change out of his pyjamas.

He had made her cry yesterday. A real, long cry – she had locked herself in this very same bathroom for an hour. Why, you may ask? He had given her a funny look. But she supposed that wasn't really his fault - she hadn't quite been herself lately.

It had been one long and horrible month, but this, _this_, was really the icing on top of the cake.

There she was, hovering above the toilet, trying to pee into a plastic vial without peeing on her hand. It proved to be a herculean task and she had never felt more unattractive as she did in that moment.

But if she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. Well, right this time, because the other tests _had_ to be wrong.

Slowly, methodically, Molly cleaned herself off and balanced the plastic container on her sink. It was an ugly sink, very seventies and a gross dark green colour. In fact, the whole bathroom had a very seventies feel, all pink tiles and green fittings. It was ugly. And small. Claustrophobic.

But no, she was going to handle this like an adult. There was no need to start freaking out over nothing.

So, with a deep breath, Molly Hooper opened the bathroom cabinet and got a thin box out from the back where she'd been hiding in from prying eyes. As she opened the box, she noticed that her hands were shaking, so she tensed her body. There was, after all, no need to be acting so silly.

She removed the thin plastic stick and picked up the small leaflet, forcing herself to read through the instructions calmly, even though she knew exactly what she had to do.

She removed the pale blue cap with a soft snap and let the applicator sit in the plastic vial, counting slowly to five as she did so. Then she reapplied the blue cap and then placed it flat on the side of the bath (also puke green). It was out of sight for now.

Two minutes.

No need to get worried, she told herself. There could be loads of explanations after all. She was under a lot of stress lately. She lost a bit of weight. It was enough to throw her cycle off. The other test were wrong. Yes, every single one of the other five tests were wrong. It was that simple. No need to worry.

She exhaled slowly, and tried to pace around the tiny bathroom, but it made her feel trapped, so she stopped.

Impatiently, she checked her wrist-watch. The little Mickey Mouse in the centre of the time-piece proclaimed that there was another minute to wait.

Molly grimaced, and as she did so, caught a glance of herself in the bathroom mirror. She was not looking her best. Pale, and drawn and scared and thoroughly exhausted. The dark rings beneath her eyes did not suit her blanched complexion.

Perhaps a little make up would help?

She opened the cabinet and got out her little make up bag. She slowly applied a thin layer of mascara to her eyelashes, applied a little bit of rouge to her positively white cheeks, and then coloured her lips red with a shaky hand. She inspected herself in the mirror, but was not satisfied. She still looked like a corpse, only now she looked like a corpse dressed up for her open casket.

She tried doing something with her hair, but when she tried to brush it out, the bristles of her hair brush made it all go static. Utterly defeated, she put her thin chestnut hair up in a bun so it was completely out of the way.

Again, she checked her watch.

It was time.

_Bloody hell, oh bloody hell. No, it's fine. Jesus calm down. _

Her heart pounded as she reached for the plastic strip that would determine the outcome of her life from this day forward. She couldn't help but squeeze her eyes shut.

_Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody bloody bloody hell. _

For a while, she just stood there, getting used the weight of it in her hand. She played with it for a bit, rolling over and over in her sweaty palm, psyching herself up. She slowed her breathing. And then, when she felt calmer, she dared to open one eye to look.

And there it was.

A little blue plus.

"Oh, fuck."

;~;~;~;

_A/N: Ahhh, I hope I got Molly in character enough. I'll be tackling Sherlock next, which will definitely be more of a challenge. Please review!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you to all you lovely people who reviewed and thank you to all you lovely people who put this in your alerts. I'm having major Molly Hooper feelings at the moment, I don't know what's wrong with me. I apologize about any of my diabolical attempts at humour. I should not be allowed to attempt comedy. _

Irrational And Illogical 

Chapter Two

She hadn't planned on seeing him ever again; but he'd turned up one night and she'd let him in regardless of what she knew in her heart. But he was so good at what he did; she had fallen for his lies again.

She hadn't really wanted to, not really. But his eyes, she had been tricked by those eyes. They had looked so soft, so warm.

He was so good at what he did

And, so silly, she'd let him back in.

;~;~;~;

It was a while before Molly was able to drag herself off of the bathroom floor. The ugly pink tiles were delightfully cold on her hot face, and quite a comfort when the room was spinning like that. She must have fainted, or perhaps she'd been on the precipice of it, because her ears were ringing and her head felt fluffy and heavy on her suddenly weak neck.

So this was it.

She was pregnant.

Molly, using the rim of the bathtub as an aid, pulled herself up into a sitting position. The plastic of the bath was cold, and it sent a pleasant shock through her exposed shoulders and made her skin bloom into goosebumps. She brought her knees up to her chest and absently circled the patterns on her pyjama bottoms (little pink sheep, some jumping, others eating grass, other lying down to sleep on a background of pink checkers – it matched the vest top she was wearing).

She needed to work things out. This was a big deal.

Of course, she had always wanted a child, she just never really imagined it would come about like this. This was not the plan. But then again, she had drawn up 'the plan' when she was eight years old and 'the plan' had also stated that she had to be married by twenty-one at the latest, but hey-ho. Still, Molly was not in the best of circumstances right now – money had always been tight (working long shifts hadn't been purely due to commitment to her work, or Sherlock interfering) but things had been a little tighter as of late, and then came the fact that she was still _single_. Her mother was going to kill her. And people would talk. Of course, they rarely did anything else, but that wasn't the point...

And then, well, the _paternity_ of the poor thing – it didn't stand a chance if anyone- but no, she was not going to think about that. She wasn't going to be resentful. That would not help the situation at all.

Molly sighed softly, and pulled herself up off of the floor and perched on the ridge of the bath. She was moving as slowly as she could from bathroom to lounge, trying to delay the inevitable.

Baby-steps. Ha ha ha ha.

Of course, there was no question about what she was going to do. She was going to keep it.

Molly Hooper was thirty-one years of age, and she was not getting any younger. She lived alone, or had done until recently, and that was only out of necessity. She had an extensive collection of teddy-bears on her bed and hung fairy-lights all over her apartment because she liked the ambiance. She also had fatal affection for home-knitted sweaters and her current great confidant was her cat Toby.

This might not happen again for her. At the end of the day, you had to count your blessings.

Molly straightened her spine; it suddenly felt like a large weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She had chewed it over in her head and had thought about it in as rational a way as she could manage. A cross-roads in her life had gaped open before her and she had chosen which forked path she was to follow.

She was going to have a baby. She was going to be a _mummy_.

A small smile pulled at her thin lips.

It was quite a nice thought really. She was going to be someone's mummy. She was going to be gifted with a little life who she could love and care for. A little life that actually needed her her love and care and support, a little thing that would actually _need_ her and appreciateher and notice when she left the room.

That would be quite refreshing actually.

She was so used to being ignored and brushed off. Especially by a certain _someone_. A certain _someone_ who had pretty much ruined her life when he waltzed into her lab with razor-sharp cheekbones and his perfectly coiffed curls. A certain _someone_ who was currently moping on the sofa and shouting at the TV.

Sherlock Holmes, life ruiner extrodinare.

She hauled herself to her feet and poured away the contense of the plastic vial and hesitated a moment before she threw it in the bin with the used test. She had often used that plastic container in the kitchen, but washing it out and using it again would have felt weird – like she was cooking with pee or something.

She unlocked the door and moved from the small bathroom to the tiny lounge. Just as she had predicted, Sherlock was sprawled across the threadbare sofa, still in his dressing-gown, hair ruffled, shouting at the TV. She really was getting better at this _deduction _stuff.

He really had got hooked on shit programming after losing his credibility, life and identity. Bless him. Perhaps deducing who stole the dead aunt's money on _Jeremy Kyle_ gave him peace of mind, proved that he was still the leading player in the art of deduction, not that he actually had any competition any more. Not since Jim, well ...

Perhaps proving his abilities to such a small audience (namely himself and Molly) was his own way of showing he wasn't a fake; although, of course, she had never doubted him.

But then again, he might just be showing off for the sake of showing off. She had no idea what was going on in that head of his.

As dear old Jeremy Kyle read out the results of the 'lie detector test', the audience gave a horrified gasp, while Sherlock rejoiced. "Yes! I told you so! It was obvious! You could tell by the chips in her nail-varnish!"

Molly smiled to herself and perched a little self consciously on the arm of the sofa, hovering a few inches above Sherlock's head. He seemed completely absorbed in the un-intelligible shouting match that was currently taking place on the stage.

She enjoyed watched him in profile when he wasn't looking.

She liked to admire the particular curl and fall of his dark hair, which was always a bit more unruly at the back, like he forgot to brush the stuff he couldn't see. She liked how the glow of the TV illuminated his sharp cheekbones and cast shadows over his pale face. And she liked to watch how the ghost of his expressions changed while he was thinking; it was, overall, vacant, but every now and again there would be the twitch of the brow or the purse of the lips, showing that he had scrapped one train of thought or had reached a conclusion.

But most of all, she liked to watch his eyes. Always alive, brewing with a gleam of intelligence so swift it was heartbreaking and intense. He always looked like he was a level above everyone else – but that was probably because he _was_. It was oddly sad.

He was often too much for people to handle. Not like she was one to talk. The second he turned his intensity on her she blathered like a school-girl and suddenly became as pliable as clay, despite how resolute she had been a second before.

He was too much most of the time. He always seemed to know what she was thinking, it was a little bit annoying, and quite a bit embarrassing. He could get into her head so easily, like she was an open book and could answer questions before she answered, and disregard any theory she had before she could actually voice it.

She wondered, with a curious sense of satisfaction, if he could see _this_ coming.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" His head twitched a little in her direction, but that was all the acknowledgement she got.

"I'm pregnant."

;~;~;~;

_A/N: I cut it a little short because I felt like I don't quite have Sherlock right yet, so apologies for the shortness. I'm going to work on getting his character as well as I can before the next chapter. So yeah, shit just got real. Any ideas on the father yet? The reveal is probably going to be quite dark, just warning you now. So, please review and tell me what to think! Also, next time: Sherlock knows ridiculously little about sex! _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you again for so many lovely reviews and so many story alerts. You are all beautiful people. And, of course, on the subject of the father, my lips are firmly sealed. For now. Now, prepare yourselves for an OOC Sherlock (I really do apologise, I just feel that I can't write him very well). Also, I'm sorry for the re-upload; I've made a few small changes. _

Irrational And Illogical

Chapter Three 

Everything was suspended suddenly, moving in slow motion. It was one of those seconds that never seemed to end, and Molly waited, ever perching, ever with bated breath, for a reaction.

He had certainly _not_ expected that.

Sherlock turned his head from the TV for the first time in however many days. His brow was furrowed and eyes a little less intense – they were clouded over, glazed and glimmering with, if we were to assume he had normal emotions, a small spark of shock. "Wha – um – what what what?"

He had stuttered. Sherlock Holmes had become so flustered that he had actually become semi-incomprehensible.

Try as she might, Molly could not help but feel a small glow of perverse pride at the fact that she was one of the few humans in the world who had rendered Sherlock completely speechless – no snarky comebacks, no biting sarcasm and no callous insults. It was like he was a different man. But it was also a tiny bit unnerving. He was normally so on the ball (or even, a few steps ahead of the ball) that seeing him flounder was a bit surreal.

Still, she wasn't one to gloat.

And anyway, this was serious business.

"I'm pregnant, Sherlock." She said it with a calm firmness and a sense of finality. Acting calm kept the panic from rising, and she needed to stay on top of that panic. She really did want to go through with this, but if she let herself falter, even for a minute, she was terrified letting her will dissolve. But still, look at the size of this flat! One bedroomed, and a tiny, cramped bedroom at that – was she, perhaps, going to wedge the baby's crib in the tiny gap between the bed and the wardrobe? And what about work? Where was the baby going to go? She couldn't just leave it with Toby, because cats don't know how to care for human kittens. And money? Children cost a lot of money and she was hardly getting by as it was. And she was going to have to take time off from work! Dear lord, where was the money going to come from?

But no. It was fine.

It was absolutely fine.

Because she wanted this.

She wanted to have a baby.

Molly took a deep breath and gave a small nod of assent to her own train of thought; only then did she realize she must have fazed out for a little while. She turned her eyes to Sherlock, hoping desperately that she'd be able to catch up with whatever he was spouting on about.

Only he wasn't saying anything.

He was sat on the edge of the sofa, both elbows on his knees, and both hands joining together over his mouth, like a little arch. He still looking a little dumbfounded, though he had recovered from the initial shock.

"Pregnant." He muttered it into his hands.

"That's what I said." Molly gave a what she hoped would be a light-hearted giggle, but when it left her throat, it sounded horribly high-pitched and forced and she winced.

He was still mumbling to himself. "I should have known, with the blotchy skin, sensitivity and mood swings. I should have known. I just thought you were being yourself."

Molly, a little wounded, raised a hand self-consciously to her face. Blotchy? In the bathroom she had looked like one of the cadavers down at the morgue; that that might have been stress-related. She hadn't even noticed. She'd had a few more spots come up lately, but she had kind of been hoping no one had noticed her skin problems.

Well, of course, it would _never_ have gone unnoticed. Just look who she had to share an apartment with.

His deep eyes turned to her. She had never quite worked out what colour those feline eyes were – sometimes they were navy, sometime light blue and sometimes they were almost on the verge of being green; they, like the rest of him, were mysterious and almost other-wordly, but that, she guessed, was their allure. They were still as intense as ever, and she melted like butter.

But then he said something _she _had never expected to hear: "How?"

Now it was Molly Hooper's turn to get flustered.

_No, no, nope, no way. This can't be real_.

Then again, this was coming from the man who genuinely did not know that the earth went around the sun. If he deemed that sort of stuff 'unimportant', would it be that much of a stretch to assume that other basic information had been deemed 'unimportant' too? Did the workings of sex come much into the solving of crimes?

Probably not, no. But, surely, _surely_ he must at least know how sex works! Rape is a crime that involves sex - then again, would Scotland Yard consult him for something like that? It didn't seem likely, they could probably handle that by themselves.

But still, Molly refused to be his tutor in the birds and the bees.

She jumped up from the sofa's arm. "I'm – um- going to make some tea. Or coffee! Yes, I'll make you some coffee. Black, two sugars, I know." She hurried to the kitchen and it was only when she stepped over the threshold that she remembered that she no longer had one.

The kitchen, like everything in this apartment, was roughly the size of a cupboard, and was painted an ugly lemon colour which had faded and mouldered in places over the years. It had been cramped enough already with the four, small, off-white cabinets on the wall, the small off-white fridge in the corner and small, off-white oven (not forgetting the small, off-white counter tops). But now, _now_ it was utter chaos.

But she heard him haul himself off of the sofa, and she scurried to the kettle, ducking under various tubes as she went so.

He appeared in the doorway.

She flicked open the kettle to check the contense, and sighed, flashing an angry look at the tall, pale shadow in the doorway. "Blood? Seriously?"

"Leave that alone, I'm in the middle of something." There was something about Sherlock's voice that made her obey without thinking. It was probably because it was slow and warm and deep, all at once at ease and under control, and it reminded her a little of her father. So, she did not argue about the the blood in the kettle, and she did not complain about having to buy a replacement because she could _never_ use it now.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Is it mine?"

Molly nearly dropped the kettle. A little of the blood poured from the spout and splattered across the counter-top and dripped down onto the white linoleum floor. "What? No! No, how could that have even happened?" Molly slammed the kettle in its place and grabbed some paper towels to mop up the gore, avoiding Sherlock's eyes all the while.

Mortified was not quite the word for how she felt right now.

"But we slept together." His voice was very even and monotonous; a stark contrast to her little yelps.

Molly could practically feel the blush radiating off of her body and heating the room around them.

"No, no we did not. We slept in the same bed – there is definitely a difference Sherlock." That much was true. Sherlock had refused to sleep on the sofa, on the account that he was a very tall man and it was a very small sofa. Molly had accepted this, but had also refused to sleep on the sofa, on the account that she had done Sherlock uncountable favours in the past and would not be banished to the sofa in her own home for an indefinite amount of time.

So, they had found the middle ground – both would sleep on Molly's double bed. Of course, they slept facing away from each other, and there had been a little teddy-bear wall separating them the entire time, so there hadn't actually been _any_ bodily contact, apart from the time she'd accidentally brushed her foot against his foot in the middle of the night.

Molly ducked under even more tubes and got a cup out of the cupboard, feeling Sherlock's eyes burning into her back the entire time. She got out the coffee and shovelled two heaped spoonfuls in – she would get him back for embarrassing her like that by making him really strong and disgusting coffee. That would teach him. "How could you not know that?"

Sherlock's face fell slightly, though she couldn't see because her back was turned to him.

"Conception isn't really a need-to-know issue in crime." He was suddenly back to his usual, haughty self and Molly felt exceedingly grateful for it.

She would let it rest at that. No need to ask any more questions or draw out this awkward situation any longer. She shovelled two very heaped spoonfuls of sugar into the cup, already feeling guilty for putting in too many coffee granules.

_Maybe I should take a little bit out? Oh, no, he's still standing there. That would look weird. I'll just wait for him to go. _

Molly stood a little while, awkwardly stirring the coffee granules and sugar at the bottom of the cup; acutely aware that she was being observed, and probably analysed for clues, or something. She didn't know what Sherlock was doing, but he certainly didn't seem likely to move any time soon, so she moved to the sink and filled the mug with water.

As the cup was filling she chanced a glance over her shoulder. He was just looking at her, a little pout on his pale lips, his eyes deep, dark and very concentrated. She hazarded a small smile and quickly turned back around again. She was, indeed, being analysed.

Or something about her was being deduced.

Molly swallowed, and put the mug in the microwave to heat the coffee.

This wasn't going to be fun.

;~;~;~;

_A/N: Please, tell me what you think. I really appreciate all the feedback given. _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Again, thank you all for all the reviews and positive feedback, it always puts a smile on my face. And as for the story alerts! Wow – I've never gotten so many people interested in one of my stories, so thank you all for that as well. You're all amazing. And, I've just realized that all four of these chapters have taken place on one day. I promise I'll be moving things on along soon. _

Irrational And Illogical

Chapter Four

The microwave hummed loudly. It was a very old model, gifted to her by her mother when she had moved out, years ago. It was a surprise it was still running really – especially through the trials Sherlock had recently been putting it through, cooking god-knows-what, and running for hours at a time.

It looked like it was about to give up the ghost, finally, after all this time. It's hum was loud and unhealthy, and the back light was flickering from bright to dim at varying beats.

Molly stared intently at it, willing herself to faze through the microwave door, liquidise into the coffee and disappear forever. Sherlock was still standing there, _deducing_, and it was making her seriously uncomfortable. Normally she would have loved to be the centre of his undivided attention, but today was different to every other day, and she kind of wished he would just go away.

She was being observed, scanned and assessed for clues. She was kind of surprised he hadn't lifted her up onto the counter top and started examining her skin with a magnifying glass like he did with the cadavers in the morgue.

Molly blushed a little when she realized the implication of what she had just thought.

When the microwave gave out a harsh beep, she jumped a little bit. She took the lukewarm cup with the lukewarm coffee out and, after ducking under various tubes and wires, handed it dutifully to Sherlock, who was still lingering at the edge of the kitchen.

He did not take it, and Molly was assaulted with the full power and force of his attention. His pupils were blown back and large, and they flit from place to place, as if he were following a fly that kept jumping from place to place all over her. His face was hard and still,and very pale. His lips twitched at odd intervals.

"Sherlock?" She was still holding out the coffee, patiently waiting.

Nothing, just a vacant blue gaze.

"Sherlock? Hello?"

No reaction.

"_Sherlock?_" She felt a deep, hormonal anger brewing in her chest. She had things to do, places to go, bodies to examine. She didn't have time to play silly buggers with a 'dead' detective – he often forgot that the world didn't just stop because he wasn't a active part of it at the moment.

She nosily slammed the cup onto the side, making the quickly cooling coffee slosh over the sides, for him to consume at his leisure. She brushed past him and squeezed out of the kitchen door.

"I'm going for a shower." She bit back the offer of food on her lips; he didn't eat anyway, she knew that much. Also, he should know where the bread was by now. Also, he had made her quite annoyed and she didn't want him to have any toast.

That would teach him. Take that Sherlock Holmes.

;~;~;~;

Sherlock was trying to approach this whole situation as logically as he could.

The facts, of which he was certain, were these: Molly Hooper was pregnant, and he and she had been sharing the same bed for two and a half weeks. However, it had quickly been established that he was not the father – something she had been adamant about, and something Sherlock had known all along, really.

He had never really seen a social exchange like that before, and had a little bit confused about why she was telling _him _of all people – he'd gleaned most of his social knowledge from trashy day-time soap operas, and from what he seen on them, the mother of the child always told the father first. So, flustered as he was, he had just assumed. Though, of course, he had known that without sexual contact it was impossible to conceive a child.

A bit embarrassing, but even the most intelligent of men committed folly.

But this situation had intrigued him, and had given him a good excuse to exercise his deductive skills, seeing that they weren't going into any good use here. Sherlock lived in fear of his mind degrading to mush in this bleak place while he waited to return; his mind was his livelihood, but his skills of deduction had become second nature to him, it was without real conscious thought that he started to scan Molly for clues, as it were. The exercise was good for him.

She had been wearing a tank top, so he had been able to see a good portion of her back and arms as she was microwaving the coffee. The first thing that jumped out at him were the scratch marks peeping over the fabric, most probably running from shoulder blade to lower back – no points for guessing where _they_ came from. But they were a deep brown, just beginning to fade, but he could tell from the scabbing that they had been deep enough to bleed when first created.

That had been a surprise. He would never had thought that Molly liked a bit of rough. But then again, she was full of surprises today.

Other than that, there was nothing on the surface which could help deduce anything. He could see now, as she turned, how pale she was, she looked very ill and exhausted. Hormones, he assumed. The cycle of pregnancy really had nothing to do with his line of work, and he didn't pretend to be a complete expert on the matter.

As she brushed past, he broke out of his reverie and went to retrieve his coffee. He took a swig and grimaced – lukewarm, at best, and bitter. Poor show, she had done better in the past. Perhaps voiding the kettle of blood and ruining his tests was preferable to bad coffee.

Moodily, Sherlock slouched back to the TV, leaving the terrible coffee where it lay, and flung himself back onto the sofa.

John had always made brilliant coffee.

So had Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock heaved a sigh – it was no use depressing himself. There was still something he needed to work out.

;~;~;~;

Molly let the hot water wash over her. Standing was the most comfortable thing she could achieve in that stupid, ugly green bath – she had never actually taken a _bath_ in it because it was so cramped and uncomfortable. Thank God for the shower nozzle.

She felt utterly drained, and she had only been awake for three hours. It was going to be one of _those_ days, she could tell. Not that her new was bad, it wasn't! It really wasn't! It just complicated things somewhat.

And she had been working such long hours lately, and on shift work, so her hours were all over the place. She legitimately could not remember the last day she had a full day off to herself.

But no, she had to go in again today, working from one in the afternoon until nine, and every cell in her body was screaming '_I don't want to go!' _but she would. She had to. Someone had to bring in some money. Else, no food, no electric, no home. And no money for the baby.

She placed a hand tentatively on her abdomen. This really was going to need some getting used to. She wasn't just Molly Hooper any more. She was Mother and Child. People were going to start looking at her differently.

At first, she imagined, it would be a bit bitchy. She knew how people could be, and that was what she was most worried about. Everyone knew that she hadn't been in a relationship for a while, and she was pretty sure they would judge her for it. Not in a malicious way, well most of them wouldn't, but they would think differently of her – 'Oh, I never expected that of Molly', that sort of thing.

But after that, people would pay more attention to her, and fuss. She would be glowing and everyone would comment on it. People would give up seats on buses, and old women would come up to her in the street to ask her questions. And she could get away with eating whatever she wanted and blame it on the baby.

That would be nice, actually. She looked forward to that.

She smiled softly to herself, a secret smile.

And for now, she wanted it to be a secret. She would not tell another soul, she decided, until the first scan (which reminded her, she really needed to sort out things with her doctor, she'd have to give him a call later). And anyway, after the way Sherlock had reacted, she didn't really feel up to telling anyone else for a while.

It was early days yet, after all, anything could happen or go wrong between now and the scan – she might not even make it that far.

But thoughts like that were awful. There was a stab of melancholy, and she decided to think about something else.

Like getting through work today. Then she could come home and sleep for most of the next day, because she was on the night shift. Three consecutive night shifts to be exact. But there was no need to think about that now.

Molly pulled back the shower curtain and checked her wrist watch, which was perched on the sink. She wiped off the condensation with her towel and nearly had a heart attack. "Oh shitting hell!"

It was half past twelve. She had half an hour to get to the hospital.

And, why yes, she did slip and nearly fall on her face while getting out of the shower.

;~;~;~;

Sherlock had concluded that Molly and he shared many of the same acquaintances, and he based his thinking on that. It was unlikely, he decided, that she would enter into a sexual relationship with someone she did not know, based on her timid personality. But, for the sake of error, he would enter an Unknown Man into his hypothesis.

So, other than the Unknown Man variable, there was John, Lestrade and Moriarty.

John could be counted out right away. Of that Sherlock was definite.

But the others required consideration.

At that moment, Molly burst out of the bathroom door, her wet hair pulled up in a wet ponytail, dressed in the usual child-like sweaters and floral print. "Late, late, late, late, late." She was mumbling it under her breath as she hurried towards the door.

"Bye Sherlock!"

He gave a dismissive wave. He was trying to think.

;~;~;~;

_A/N: So yeah, next chapter – Sherlock's final deductions. Please review my lovelies, I do like to hear what you think. _


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